


Fly There Spear, Into the Mountain Top

by ninaunn



Series: shield yourself now, you can survive this strife [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Sif, Coming of Age, Gen, Marvel Norse Lore, POV Female Character, Ragnarok, Sif-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Women Being Awesome, post Thor 2, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lady Sif was being haunted, and so she walked the Bone Desert.</p><p>A Sif-centric story that explores her place with Asgard before, after and during the films.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Stood Under a Linden-Wood Shield

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will stop writing about Asgard. I swear.
> 
> This story was inspired by the short Sif comic 'The Veil of Courage', where Sif goes a bit nuts and decided to wonder a desert wearing only a dress and fighting a dragon. Anyway, I wanted to work a story like that into the MCU, though I'm not too sure where it's headed. I hope people enjoy reading it regardless.

_ein_

Sif walked in the desert, and the desert watched her.

She could feel it, or else, she could feel something. Her skin itched, as if it were leather being stretched out to parchment, and every puff of air and sand scatter felt raw. Every now and then, the shield-maid would spin her head, trying to seek the shadows that loomed behind her vision. She was sure they were there, but then, she’d been sure that they were on Asgard too.

The Bone Desert was empty, bare as far as her eyes could see. Grey sand sparkled under an indigo sky, stretching out beyond the horizon. This was a desolate place, for lost things and forgotten sorrows. Such a place was fitting for her; Sif had too many doubts, too many fears and ravings to hold her head high anymore. Wading slowly through the dunes was a test, a plea for the desert to strip her of the vile things that haunted her heart.

For the moment the desert was silent, but it would not be for long. In the few days Sif had been here, she’d learned that the desert was fickle with its moods. One moment the burnt orange sun burnt down at her with a vengeance, only to slip away into obscurity without any notice to leave behind a cold harvest of frost and moonlight.

For now, the sun shone, and the skin on Sif’s face and shoulders cracked and reddened. That much she could bear, for the shield-maid was no stranger to discomfort. Sif had marched on long campaigns that left her bones broken and her spirit sick and she had endured.

The stars knew she was well versed at enduring.

Rubbing her eyes, Sif glared at the sky, wondering if any hint could be found of the next fickle storm. It was hard to think of looking up, her eyes felt scratched enough as was and that cursed sun overwhelmed the desert-scape. 

Not for the first time she prayed for water. Not for the second time Sif cursed the nature of this ordeal. Nothing could be taken into the desert; she wore only the veil and her leathers and carried no supplies. She could call her armour no longer. What would be found in the desert was to be found by will alone, and the shield-maid knew she had more stubbornness then a mule.

 _“That must be why your teeth look like that,”_ whispered a memory of childhood, and she spun around to search for raven hair and green eyes.

Nothing met her, only a scraggly pile of stones piled into a neat tower barely a foot high.

Growl at her throat, the shield-maid made to kick at the small structure, but thought better. She’d rather not injure her foot in a fit of foolishness. 

Shading her eyes, Sif looked behind her at the long line of her lonely footsteps, and wondered how much further she would have to walk before she found salvation.

\--

_tveir_

It had begun after the All-father had summoned the companions of Thor to the wrecked remains of Gladsheim. 

They had not gone to face their King’s displeasure with heavy hearts; Thor’s gamble had paid off, after all. But for herself, Sif had been weary. War sung in her blood, but death was a burden she paid for her love of battle and Asgard had seen so much death.

Still, she’d been proud of her part to play in Malekith’s ending, small as it was. The golden realm was broken, bloodied and grieving, but still it was standing. She’d sworn an oath to keep it so, and so it was. 

Odin sat upon his cracked and lonely throne; his one eye dark and unreadable as they approached the dais. As one, Sif, Fandral and Volstagg knelt before their king and hoped for his mercy.

Sif recalled another time with another king, and wondered at the hollow space beneath her ribs. Another time, and they had approached Hlidskjalf and found the second prince seated there. Sif had looked at Loki, crowned king, and seen a stranger, and from then on her path was simple. A battle to fight, a monster to slay and a wrong to right.

And there had been a wrong, she reminded herself. Never mind the childhood pranks against snobbish handmaids and boorish youths. Never mind the biting wit that dared her to think beyond the next obstacle.

For had not she seen her brother, screaming, whilst trapped in ice? Of the Einherjar blood frozen on the Vault’s floor. These things to her were old battle-wounds that her heart had yet to heal from.

Now, Jaw clenched and lips thin, Sif studied the scrollwork of the floor tiles and did not think on regret. Listened to the breath of Fandral and small shuffles of Volstagg. 

For Odin was wrought bitter and sharp by the Queen’s death, the stern shield of justice and authority of old had cracked. The Dark Elves had stripped him of dignity and into a bloody blade bent on vengeance, a stark mirror to the rashness and arrogance of his first-born’s youth. 

Sif wondered how many millennia it had taken Odin to forge himself anew into the benevolent king she’d sworn her oaths to. How much of it had been Frigga, when all control and caution had unravelled from the All-father at her ending? 

Still, the All-father spoke not, but let the weight of his displeasure hang above their necks.

Until, finally, he did.

“Sif Ulfrunardottir, Fandral of Rudduc’s Vale, Volstagg Falstaffing,” came the voice like a tombstone, and Sif tensed but did not tremble. “Once before you defied the throne of Asgard, and once more I must pass judgement on your actions.”

“Rise,” commanded Odin after cold silence. “Rise, I wish to look upon the faces of those who would defy their king.”

Breathing through her nose, Sif looked up warily. The All-father had not moved from his seat, and his face was as still and impassive as stone. Beside her, Volstagg huffed as he rose to his feet, and after a moment, Sif moved to do the same.

“By all rights, I should hang you three as traitors.” 

All three stiffened, and for a moment Sif felt a raw fury in her blood, even as she knew it was no more than what she deserved.

The All-father sighed then, and it seemed to Sif that Odin turned in on himself, before also rising to stand. He appeared stiff with shadow, and Sif thought that only his iron will held his sorrowed self together. 

“Have you no words for your defence?” Odin rumbled.

“My king,” Volstagg began. “Treason as it may have been, but what we did, we did for Thor.”

“For Asgard,” Continued Sif.

“And for love…and honour,” finished Fandral. If the All-father recognised their words as those they had defended themselves with when last he’d held judgement over them, he did not show it. 

“Clearly my son is the only king whose rule you will obey, and yet he is gone now to Midgard. Would you follow?”

Slowly, Odin descended the dais, Gungnir hitting each step with a heavy methodology.

“No, All-father,” Sif spoke, voice low and even. “We will remain on Asgard, for whatever fate you choose to bestow on us.”

Silence reigned again in Gladsheim, terse and thin. Sif’s heart beat loudly in her chest, and she wondered if she really would die as a traitor. A bitter end indeed, but did not Odin have the right?

If they had failed, Asgard would be without both of Odin’s sons and his queen. Would not the Golden Realm’s end have come quickly?

Odin’s only eye seemed sharp as it tracked the small betrayals of her face. Sif did not want to die, she could not deny that, but she would go with dignity if that was what the Norn’s wove for them.

“Leave me,” Odin said suddenly, with a voice of age and pain. “What honours you’ve earned for your service these past two years you may keep, but all profit, in addition to half of what you’ll earn in the next ninety years will be forfeit to the crown.” 

He turned from them, gaze caught on some ruined pillar.

“My king-“

“Our thanks-“

“LEAVE ME!” roared the All-father with a fury few had ever seen. “Know that when you next defy the throne, I will annihilate you so that only your footsteps will hold the memory of your wilful souls! Be gone!”

So they were.

\--

_thrir_

She remembers the first time she saw the All-father, so quiet and grave on his throne. Sif had been attending Frigga. It had been the first feast in Asgard she’s attended as the queen’s handmaid, and the young girl was torn between running off to find Thor to cause havoc and staying hidden behind her serving duties.

The hall had been loud with song, and it had been strange to Sif; her mother’s hall had been quiet and isolated. Ulfrun and her sisters had been content to roar with the ocean waves and holler with the wind. Theirs was a wild music without words, and one Sif had never been able to comprehend. The cold of Nilfheim had exhausted her as a youngling, though she’d tried so hard to keep up with her mother.

Her aunt’s had laughed and said that Misty Realm was not for those in whose veins the blood of the Aesir rang strong.

In Gladsheim however, Sif’s blood could run hot, and the clear ringing of rhythm and dancing whirl of colour and movement was a language she her heart to beat to.  
Shyly she had followed in Frigga’s wake attempting to be useful. Odin had glanced at her with his single eye when she tried to take the queen’s glass, and Sif had been sure she’d breached some etiquette punishable by death.

But no call for execution was sounded, Odin had merely frowned as she’d turned to make a retreat to come face to face with a giant humming wasp. Sif snarled and threw the pitcher at it, only for the insect to dissipate on impact. The metal jug landed loudly, splattering Sif’s dress with the honeyed liquid.

“Loki,” Odin had growled as the surrounding nobles paused to see what had cause such a clamour. Sif’s cheeks had blushed red, and she’d stood still scowling at nothing in particular when two sheepish boys came out from their hiding place behind a pillar.

“You!” Sif had spluttered at the princes as ladies tittered behind her, never mind the looming presence of the All-father. It was easier to be angry then afraid. “You jelly-hearted cravens!” 

It was only Frigga’s placating hand on her shoulder that prevented Sif from launching herself at the princelings. Thor looked delighted, and Loki satisfied, so Sif poked her tongue out at them.

“Such trickery shames the sons of Odin,” the All-father had gently rebuked, and Sif noted how Loki’s entire demeanour sagged against his brother. Served him right.

“Attend to the lady you’ve wronged,” Frigga told them, urging Sif toward them, “and mayhap you boys won’t be mucking the stables till harvest.”

The princes shared a long suffering look between them, before Thor gallantly stepped forward to kiss her hand.

“Lady Sif, may we humbly serve you as your beauty deserves?” he asked, winking cheekily as his parents watched. Sif scowled and flicked his forehead.

“You’ve ruined my dress,” she answered haughtily.

“Good,” said Loki.

“Then we shall make it up to you!” said Thor, grabbing both their hands to drag them away for some other scheme as the queen watched smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13/03/15: Edited for sentence structure. How embarrassing!
> 
> 13/11/17: Edited for funsies


	2. To Another Of Them I Intend To Send In Turn

_fjórir_

Dust and sand pervaded every pore of Sif’s body. Her mouth tasted of ashes behind blistered lips; her ears and eyes were clogged with grit. Sweat and grime bled together in the creases of her skin, under her tunic and leathers, and any shine on them had long been beaten away.

The sun had not dimmed for what seemed like days; it felt hungry against her senses and gnawed away at her breath. Surely even the fiery plains of Muspelheim did not burn as the sand did here? She could feel it through the leather of her boots, burning her toes and melting the nails.

It was a relief, in a way, to be so distracted by sensation. On Asgard, silence reigned supreme in the sombre palace halls. Even the skalds brought in by the All-father could not breach it. Sif had heard scuttles in the shadows that she could not explain, and there was no one to turn to. Thor was gone to Midgard. The Queen had gone to Valhalla. Hogun to Vanaheim, Volstagg to his family and Fandral to his lovers. 

And again Loki had been lost. 

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, Sif shuffled onward. The muscles of her thighs complained with each step, but still the shield-maid walked. Silence in the Bone Desert meant it was thinking of new ways to kill her, but that was something Sif was used to.

Silence reigned in Asgard because its queen was dead and its king was broken.

To stop was to be defeated, that much had become clear. If she stopped, Sif would not start again. She would become the silent despair of the tarnished golden realm, and the sharp winds and bitter sand would wear down her limbs until only white bone remained.

_“Such macabre thoughts,” Loki said beside her, blood running freely from a wound in his side._

_“More suited to the Silvertongue than to the lovely Sif,”_ countered Fandral from her other side, though it seemed that one of his arms had been torn off.

“Go bury your heads,” Sif snapped at them, but when she looked up there was nothing.

Staring flinty-eyed at the places they’d been, the shield-maid tightened her mouth, but spoke no further.

A lonely grave in a malicious desert was not for her, with none to sing the songs of her glory deeds to open Valhalla’s gates. Sif had never been made for silence. She would walk until she’d found what she’d came here for, and she would banish the dull muteness in her heart with a roar. Then she would turn her blade to the spiders and cobwebs from her mind and flickering, blood-red shadows from her soul so that once again the realms would tremble at the sound of her name.

So, Sif walked.

\--

_fimm_

Agony burned itself into the webbing of her flesh until there was not even breath left for her to scream. The great branches Yggdrasil burned and the universe sung its death song. Thor drowned in his own blood. Odin was torn apart like a ragdoll in the teeth of a wolf. Nidhoggr bit at Hogun, who stood valiantly over the limp bodies of Fandral and Volstagg. Blood streaked a Valkyrie’s face as she charged at the Dead Queen and Sif could not save them.

Heimdall lay bent and broken in her arms, golden eyes dim. Flames rose around them, and she snarled at her brother’s killer. Green eyes caught hers through a grimy face, but no sneer now twisted his lips.

“It had to end like this,” whispered Loki, even as Sif drew the dagger from Heimdall’s side. “There was no other way, you know this.”

No battle cry was left to her lungs and no hope to her heart, but she leapt to him anyway and-

With a shuddering heart and sweat slick skin, Sif lurched forward to tumble out of bed. She drew in air by the lungful, scratching at her arms to be sure that the blood and gore had gone. 

“No,” the shield-maid sobbed to herself. “Nononono-“

The frenzied beat of her pulse thumped at her temples, and bile rose to the back of her throat. Hands lifted to pull at her hair as Sif bared her teeth to the shadows.

A cool breeze caressed her from the open window, and Sif looked up at it to see the stars. 

They hummed quietly in Asgard’s night, and she scrambled to the window so as to be sure.  
The golden realm was sleeping, at peace and still standing, and Sif looked to the Bifrost again to be sure that the world was not crumbling. Her body shivered violently against the chilled night air. It was all she could do to not weep at the sight of her brother’s golden gatehouse.

Already, details of Sif’s dream were fading, though none of the horror. As the sweat on her skin dried sticky, she rested her head to the sill and tried to manage her breathing. Her throat hurt, as did her heart. 

“Cursed Hel,” the shield-maid whispered, for it was not the first night she had woken with such terror. Her fingers were still trembling, and Sif wondered if she’d be able to ever sleep again. The aching in her limbs felt more like the aftermath of a battle than a waking state. 

Slowly, her limbs unlocked and her pulse fell steady. Sif ran a hand through her ragged hair to distract herself from their lingering tremor.

When had she become so weak and full of fear? This was not the first nightmare to wake her with dread. Death was no stranger to the shield-maid and yet a horror had chased her from sleep ever nightly like a thin-faced knave. 

A breath hitched in Sif’s throat as she raised her head again to look at the stars. The light of day would banish most of the night terrors, and there they could be dismissed as the wanderings of a disquiet mind. 

And who in Asgard was not untroubled in the shadow of it’s almost ruin?

She prayed to the stars to send her quiet, though Sif did not believe it would come.

\--

_sex_

“I’ve never been bested by a maid before,” Thor told her. 

They sat back to back in a dusty training ring, panting quietly as each examined their own bruises. Both were covered with grit with tunics so damp they stuck. She felt good though; pleasantly exhausted, like her body hummed with warm honey. 

It was no small thing to better Thor at a bout, not when most of her training was done in either secret or subterfuge.

Sif snorted when she recalled Thor’s statement.

“How many maids have you actually fought?”

Thor chuckled; his muscles rocked against her back and Sif poked what looks like a handprint on her upper arm.

“Not many,” answered the prince truthfully. “The Valkyrie recruits used to be housed here, did you know? Before they rode off into Death.” 

That made her pout, for Sif was loath to admit the old worry came hand in hand with longing. The elusive Valkyrior were long since gone into myth and story, and so few women had claimed such renown with a sword since. Sif knew herself, even so young; she would have taken the trials to join their ranks without a moments pause. 

Now, it was her alone. The bastard daughter from a distant realm and the Einherjar full of stares and sneers. 

“I always wanted to be a Valkyrie,” Thor continued wistfully.  
She turned to elbow him in the ribs, to which he squirmed and tried to return the favour.

“As if you’d be strong enough to get in,” Sif scolded, easily deflecting his clumsy attack. Neither have the energy to escalate the tussle.

“I would,” Thor declared unworriedly, resettling against her back. Sif sighed loudly and rested her head on his shoulder blade.

“It’d be nice to fight against another girl,” she said wistfully.

“I’ll say!”

“You like that tongue of yours, Odinson?” Sif dug in her elbow again, and Thor made a high pitched whine that greatly pleased her. ”Besides, you wouldn’t even know what to do with a woman, let alone two Valkyrie.”

“So you are a Valkyrie now?” he asked her laughing.

“I wish,” Sif muttered, but Thor must have picked up on the longing in her voice, for he turned and wrestled her into a headlock. The squawk that came off her tongue was cut short as Sif attempted to bite her captor. 

“If you were a Valkyrie, who’d be here for me to gloat over?” he asked the would-be warrior merrily, dodging when her flailing arms sought to seize his head. Sif hissed at him, twisting her body so that she might slip out of his grasp.

“You mean ‘who’d be here to grind you into dust’?” she crowed triumphantly as a wayward fist struck the underside of Thor’s chin and sent him backwards. Not losing the advantage, Sif sprung up to dig one knee in the soft space to the side of his groin and a forearm against his throat.

The prince spluttered, and Sif grinned impishly at him as she pressed down with her knee.

“Yield! Yield!” Thor choked, and Sif poked his ribs again before letting him up for air.

“All hail Lady Sif,” muttered Thor, rubbing his neck with a half-hearted scowl. “I don’t doubt that’ll be the last time you’ll hear that.”

“All hail me, indeed,” she smiled at him. In her heard she could already hear them cheering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 13/11/17: for funsies to be a tad more canon compliant. I may be working on something :P


	3. Iron Weapons, Exceedingly Wonderful

_sjau_

At last the sun had broken, yet it was to the sudden deathly cold that Sif found no comfort in the change. Now her blistered skin was ice-burned and her fingers numb from the still quiet of night. It was not long until her teeth chattered so much Sif believed them shattered, and her stomach rolled at the pain of shivering bones.

Though her mother had always said she’d the eyes of a wolf, Sif’s gaze could not pierce the inky black that enveloped her. So, she was left to stumble, to crawl on weary limbs to some kind of hope of healing.

“What hope?” Sif muttered bitterly to herself. “You are mad, Sif. Why else would Odin send you to such a hopeless place?”

All at once she was certain that another set footsteps were echoing her own. They were strong and steady even as Sif dragged herself to her feet with frosty fingers.

 _“For your own good, youngling,”_ the darkness answered in a gentle, deep baritone that made Sif weep. She remembered when he’d first taken her through the Bifrost to Asgard, his giant hand holding her own as she bit her lip so as not to be afraid. _“You could not survive there. Our mother-“_

“Heimdall!” Sif cried out, lurching towards his voice. “Heimdall, help me, I’m lost!”

Her brother’s echo faded; in Sif’s panic to reach for him her feet tangled. She fell hard, and the cold sand felt like shards of glass had pierced her face. Some kind of guttural sound of despair clawed out of her chest at the abandonment.

 _“I’ve never known the valiant Lady Sif to succumb to defeat so easily,”_ Thor chuckled. She did not look at him, for if she did, Sif knew that blood would be running down his cheeks from his eye and ears.

“You’re wrong to presume to know me so well,” the shield-maid told him instead in a ragged whisper, her warm breath visible in the chilled air. It was an unfair retort, and only partly untrue. 

Thor had been the first to see the fight in Sif and not scoff; Asgard’s first prince had a known immediately her golden hunger for honour and glory. 

His brother had recognised the ambition in the corner of her smile, rage in her battle shout and bitterness in her laughter.

But Thor had believed in her. Never faltered her focus or belittled her victories.

_“And who proved wrong all who scoffed at the idea that a young maiden could be one of the fiercest warriors?”_

This time, Sif smiled and turned to look at him.

“I did,” Asgard’s finest shield-maid replied, and Thor smiled through his wounds. It was still beautiful.

Vaguely, Sif wondered if the phantoms had followed her here, or if they were native to the Bone Desert. When she blinked, Thor was gone and there was only the night sky and a long, cold wind.

\-- 

_atta_

A weapon was something that needed constant tending to if it was expected to last. 

Sif had always sought to make herself a weapon before all else, a sword and shield for Asgard to wield as the All-father saw fit. Long hours she had spent perfecting every turning step and smooth slide of limbs for a dance that would see only one victor. 

She could not be a Valkyrie, so Sif had made even the Einherjar own her prowess. Every sneer and sly remark had been beaten out of her detractors’ bloody mouths long ago. Now, her smile had the sharpest bite.

Yet her nightly disquiet inspired in Sif a drive to fight greater than any adolescent taunts or childish stubbornness had been. What greater battle was there than with oneself? Sif would not be made a coward to her own shade. 

The Warriors Three were gone away where their often irritating, always jovial companionship could not reach her. Split by duty, Odin had separated the companions of Thor for their rebellion. Fandral was sent to some lonely outpost where Marauder’s still swarmed, and was Volstagg charged with guarding trade routes with Vanaheim. Heimdall was barred from the golden palace he’d long guarded. 

Sif did not argue when Tyr bid her shape the Einherjar cadets into worthy warriors. The All-father had bid that the Golden Realm be forged into a sharper sword than it had ever been, while he locked himself away and pondered ineffable things.

It was not glorious, and the shield-maid found little joy in teaching youths the right way to hold a blade. But she swore that by their swords would the Golden Realm never be so easily taken again.

Unease never left her and dark things began to curl around her steps. So Sif schooled the younglings against one another until they were bone-weary and bloodied, broke down every instinct they had and built up their bodies into lethal movement and ferocious precision. 

“Your teaching methods have little mercy to them,” her brother told her in his quiet, solemn voice. The Observatory was empty save for them, and the Bifrost pulsed beneath their feet.

“War has little mercy,” Sif replied sharply. Heimdall had hummed, gaze ever star-ward. 

Flexing her fingers, she’d tried not to look at him. 

Sif knew her hardness had won few admirers from her students. She did not need it. Yet, through the exhausting challenges and endless drills, even the scrawniest began to be bent into something like steel. A fighting force was only as strong as its weakest member, and Sif demanded that her cadets never leave one of their own behind. 

Once, when hauling up a youth wounded by his own clumsiness and demanding an explanation, Sif had looked up to see the grim figures of both Odin and Tyr from the stands. How long they’d been watching her training session, she did not know. However, Odin had noticed her regard, and bent his head in acknowledgement.

“They are not at war yet,” Heimdall reminded her, and Sif tried not to see the blood dripping from his temple, sliding over gold armour. She frowned.

“Even you did not foresee the last one, brother,” snapped Sif. “Look what that cost us!” 

“Remember they are more than their swords,” continued Heimdall patiently. “Remember that you are too.” 

At last he turned to look at her. The movement of his jaw exposed a long, thin wound across her brother’s throat. Sif almost flinched, and then something in her gaze shifted, and it was gone.

“I cannot be anything but,” the shield-maid said, and left.

\--

_niu_

There was blood in her mouth, bruises on her ribs and her knuckles were split and raw when she ran into Loki.

“Oh,” he said in surprise, and Sif scowled so that he did not see her wince at the pain of being jolted.

“Watch yourself,” Sif told him, before remembering to who she spoke. “My Prince.”

With Thor she wouldn’t have bothered, but Loki could be a snotty little git on a bad day, and Sif was in no mood to pander to his wounded pride.

“My Lady,” he said in return, sharp eyes darting over her. No doubt he’d already deduced she’d been fighting. Not that it would have been hard to figure out, clothing torn as it was. 

Black eye-brows raised and then frowned, and Sif was sure he was going to say something glib.

“I fell down some stairs,” she blurted out. No one liked a tattle-tale, even if that slime-ball Tunne and his cronies had cornered her three-to-one. There were always some who took exception to Sif’s exceptional ability to soundly trounce most of her peers in the training ring. 

Curiously, most only voiced on said resentment when Thor was absent. Sif made sure they regretted it.

Loki’s lips thinned.

“Rather a large set of stairs, were they?” he asked dryly. “Lots of steps?”

“Yes,” Sif snapped, wiping away what she thought might be blood dripping down her lip.

“Well,” he said snidely. “Well, you seemed to have missed the way to the Infirmary. I’m sure they’re well equipped to dealing with your…clumsiness.” 

Sif snarled at him and looked away. There seemed to be nothing to say short of admitting she’d hoped to slink to her rooms unnoticed. They stood there in stilted silence. Sif considered simply leaving.

Or, she would have, but her muscles moved just so, and a sharp stab of pain pierced her side and stilled Sif’s breath.

“Stubborn as a mule,” Loki chided her, rolling his eyes at her wince and grim expression. “I suppose you were hoping to limp off and lick your wounds in private where no-one would notice? Do you even have a healing stone in your mangy quarters?”

“Shut your mouth, Odinson,” Sif told him through clenched teeth. In truth, she hadn’t thought past crawling into bed and collapsing into slumber. But his derision unexpectedly wounded her, and the shield-maid hurt and indignation boil her blood. “What would you know of fighting, anyway? Or healing? Too busy with your little tricks-“

“And here I was thinking you’d fallen down some stairs,” the second prince sneered, eyes flashing dangerously. 

Caught in her own lie, Sif swore at Loki and moved to storm past him. Whether it was malicious or accidental, his shoulder clipped hers, and Sif was struck by a rolling wave of pain that sent her to one knee. Heaving and curled around her wounded ribs, Sif was shamed to realise that a low whine had escaped her throat, and that Loki now knelt beside her.

“Stubborn Sif,” whispered Loki, and Sif refused to look at his face.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed, though there was no bite in her tone, only pleading. “I’m fine.”

“You are,” he told her conversationally, “a terrible liar. Do you think you can stand?”

“Am not,” replied Sif, against all evidence to the contrary. “Of course. It was just a little fall.” 

“Good,” Loki said plainly, sitting back on his heels and looking at her through narrowed eyes.

Refusing to prove herself wrong, Sif sucked in a lungful of air before resting her hands on her knees and forcing her body to unfold. The prince said nothing as she slowly uncurled herself, only watching as Sif stiffly rose to stand. She still refused to look at him.

“You know,” he began, stepping away from her, “I’m not…unfamiliar with the perils of stairs.”

“What?” she growled, more in pain than angry.

“I believe Fjolnir’s office is rather close by.”

“Who?” snapped Sif.

“One of my esteemed tutors,” Loki explained disinterestedly. “He has the most useful things in there. Healing stones and the like.”

“I’m fine,” Sif said through gritted teeth. A small corner of her mind saw Loki’s meddling for the kindness it was. Another had no interest in running into anyone who might take interest in what stair exactly she had ‘fallen’ down. “No need to trouble…I’m sure you’re more than enough-”

Sweat beaded on her lip, and it was becoming awfully hard to see straight. Sif barely noticed when Loki took her gently by the elbow and started leading her away.

“Don’t be foolish,” he scoffed, and Sif would have scowled but that she found herself leaning on the thin boy beside her. “He’s away at the moment. I do, however, have a remarkable talent for going where I’m not wanted.” 

Sif grunted her approval, and did not argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 13/11/17: for kicks


	4. Out, Little Spear, If You Are Here Within

_tiu_

At first it was nothing more than a speck on the horizon, and Sif paid the black smudge no mind. All effort went into dragging one aching foot in front of the other. The dusty sharp sand had long since worn down her boots until they were mere scraps of broken leather hanging off her toes, and her clothes were brittle and faded by the long sun and bitter winds. Her skin blistered and bled, and her mouth felt like quick-sand and her belly like a den of snakes.

The only thing that endured was the veil Odin had proffered prior to her departure. There were words he had said, some other details, but they were lost to her now. All that remained her his heavy hands draping it over her head and shoulders. She should have felt honoured at such a gift, or grateful.

Sif felt neither of these things. It was a frail garment after all, it protected her little from the Bone Desert’s relentless fury. 

But, there should have been something else there. On instinct her hand went to her aching ribs.

Was that the wind, or a long, lonely howl?

Truly, the All-father must have thought Sif disturbed to send her out here. A mercy, maybe. Let the Lady Sif wither in her madness alone, where none should be able to tarnish the glory of her name. A gifted veil to shroud her.

Inch by inch Sif crawled onward, until even her insides felt raw and open to the purple sky. If ghosts spoke to her, the shield-maid was long past hearing them. All that existed was the narrowed idea of _forward_ , and her tired eyes saw nothing but the unattainable horizon.

But the black smudge lingered, and as Sif staggered on it grew until the dark red of its rock revealed an open maw where _at last_ she might gain some relief.

A sob crawled out of Sif’s throat, a harsh sound of torn parchment and autumn leaves. Her blistered fingers reached for the promise of shade, and if she’d had the water to spare, Sif would have wept.

Never mind the silver stalactites that hung like knives above a wounded bird, or their brothers that rose from the floor that cut her knees and belly. No gift came without a price, after all.

Asgard’s Lady of War crawled into darkness, and felt the absence of fire on her skin and blissfully, blissfully tumbled to sleep.

\--

_ellifu_

Quiet blooms of rose coloured cloud rested like a shroud on the twilight sky, though Sif saw it not. Bone-weary from consigning her cadets to a trial of tenacity and battle-play, the warrior thought of little more than the comfort of a hot bath.

No soft bed for Sif, however. Sleep seemed almost as dangerous to any skirmish to Sif of late. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, held at bay by the light napping one perfected on a long campaign. The night brought too much uncertainty for it to be restful, and far too perilous to surrender to.

It would be a well-deserved rest, too. For a week she’d stalked the long moors and gloomy forests of Ydalir, one of Alfheimr’s small moons. Four teams of five cadets had been dotted around the landscape and instructed to apprehend her before she found them. 

Sif taught her students war, but she also taught them battle, and battle could be found any varied corner of the Nine Realms.

They were still so young, to Sif’s eyes. Still plump with youth and carelessness; she could not help but see their deaths when she looked at them. She was forging them into something sharper, but ah, too slowly for her liking.

Coated in mud and silence, the battle-master had watched her students to see if they’d learned anything of survival.

Now, she ran through their performance to hold of the haze creeping at the corners of her vision. Instruction brought with it an accounting for progress.

Team Prir had stuck on her tail closely for the first three days, utilizing the tracking skills of Elof to keep her on the run. It was no small skill that he had found marks of her passing; the forest wide and spacious and she’d long ago perfected the art of treading lightly.

Elof had sharp eyes, but was eager to prove his worth. In that desire to impress, Sif had found a carelessness. A heavy heel cuff here and a snapped branch there and he was certain she’d headed down a gully.

But Sif had hunted bilgesnipe and mountain boars, and knew a thing or two about setting false trails to throw a hunter off scent. Perched on a rock and scanning the ridge, Young Elof had tensed when Sif left lose a soft gasp. Bold as he was, the youngling did not turn back for his friends, but slunk forward instead.

And alone, it was no trial to over-power the cadet in their silent scuffle. Elof’s armour had soon shimmered red to mark his failure. After that, his shield-brothers had floundered, directionless. Come night, Sif had lured them with pained cries and frightened yelps to a dense copse of firs to set upon a slumbering Team Ein, whose sentry she’d long taken out.

Picking off the would-be Einherjar one by one in the resulting scuffle had been simple.

On the fifth night, team Tveir had started wailing in panic and anguish, and if Sif had not spotted their look-out, she might have fallen for the feint. It’d been an admirable effort, playing the wounded rabbit to attract the fox, and a wiry low-born lass Moeid had shown the beginnings of a cunning leader with the deception.

Even now that thought made Sif smile.

So, all night she’d let the younglings wail, napping quietly on a cliff above their camp while their nerves grew and festered. At dawn, Sif had strode into their midst and barked at them to stand to attention. With bleary eyes and instinct they had obeyed, and Sif had marked their armour red in their confused obedience.

The last squad of cadets had encountered an unexpected lindorm. Though they had claimed that victory, team Fjorir had been in no state to stand against their commander right after. 

Something bitter rose in her throat at the thought of their progress. For that her cadets had begun to work to their strengths within their teams, there remained the naivety of honour and glory to their thinking that would no doubt kill them. A few hundred years of adventuring and adversity might make them into fine soldiers, if they survived it. 

Sif knew they might not have that long.

Now, the long shadows of evening stretched across Asgard, and Sif felt her bones ache. As the last light glimmered along an open air walk-way, Sif stalked on and wondered if tonight she might seek slumber.

A shadow broke free from a pillar.

Sif snapped up a knife without thought.

Time was, such an occurrence would be followed by swish of green and snide laughter, but Loki was dead and gone to dust twice over now.

Her heart still faltered, for another dead man had taken shape. Blood poured freely from a wound on his cheek, and his dark hair and skin could not hide the violence on his body.

“Haldor,” Sif breathed, horror rising in the back of her throat and burning her eyes. Once those bruised lips had smiled with pearl white teeth, and those broken hands had held her tight.

A ghost, she realized with muted terror. Restless for justice, for she had slain him with her own hands so long ago.

 _“Sif,”_ the dead man said hollowly, and she remembered his laughter.

“What madness had brought you here?” her cracked voice asked, hoarse with pain. Yet Sif was soldier, and the blade glinted in hand even as as her stomach threatened to retch.

There was no terror binding her chest. Of course it was only shock. No tremor in her hand, only battle-lust.

Of course, of course. Sif was a soldier, after all. Soldiers did their duty.

 _“You’ve killed me,”_ he said with muted surprise, eyes pale and frantic. _“It was meant to be you, she asked it of me.”_

“Silence!” Sif roared, and leapt forward with a fury to slay a man already slain. Rage, not anguish, boiled her blood, and she refused to be dragged down by old sorrows.

The blade darted toward his bared throat like a snake-bite, and the ghost melted back into shadow.

For a moment, Sif only heard the harshness of her own breath. She blinked, muscles aching for a fight, and spun around at the sound of a maid-servant’s muffled cries.

“Milady,” squeaked a small, red-faced maiden, and Sif’s sharp eyes darted to the dark corners of the hall to find the dead.

“Where is he?” she demanded harshly, knife bare and instincts eager.

“Who…?”

“Haldor,” the shield-maid snapped. “He was right here!”

“I…” The young girl wrung her hands and stepped back. “There was no one…Milady.”

Sif stared, heart thumping and mind reeling. In her silence, the maid trembled, and the warrior flicked her eyes aside to let the girl scurry away. 

Something heavy coiled around her insides, and she looked down to the knife clenched tight in her fist. It was one thing to see death flickering over the living. It was said that the Valkyrie occasionally saw such doom. Echoes of death.

To see the shade of a long dead man was something else entirely.

Unease crept over her skin, and Sif feared her own mind.

\--

_tolf ___

__“It has been a long time since you have returned to us, little flame” spoke Imth. Sif straightened from where the Bifrost’s landing mark cooled, shaking out her long limbs as the bitter air of Niflheim seeped into her skin._ _

__“Aye,” she replied, stepping down to approach the tall, copper skinned woman. “I meant to visit sooner.”_ _

__Silver eyes watched her unblinkingly and Sif fought down a shiver. The bare, grey cliff they stood on lay open to the heavy mists that often crept up from the frozen ocean below._ _

__Her mother’s people were ancient even by Asgard’s standards, and had long been the caretakers of the frozen rivers birthed by Hvergelmir. It was by their primal seidr that watchful Heimdall had been born, though he had long ago sworn himself to Asgard with the nine blessings of his mothers._ _

__Of course, it was not mere courtesy that Odin had welcomed the allegiance of the Mist-Realm’s best son. For Niflheim had first birthed the Jotun, until the Niflungar had broken free from the ice and driven them out. It was not a realm that forgave the weak._ _

__Much of Sif’s youth had been spent cursing the Asgardian blood that made her vulnerable to the icy mists. While her mother and aunts crossed the frozen water to sing to the stars with bare feet, Sif had to be bundled in enough furs to make her spherical to simply step outside._ _

__Even now she was older and stronger, the ice air still made her bones feel like brittle porcelain. Sif grit her teeth and thought welcome home._ _

__Not that Imth would miss her discomfit; her aunt had an uncanny way of seeing through her bravado. Wordlessly, the Niflungar held out a heavy fur cloak, and the shield-maid stepped into it gratefully._ _

__“It hard stepping away from the fire to face chill winds,” her aunt said mildly, securing the cloak’s clasp like Sif was a child. “Ulfrun never doubted that you would return.”_ _

__Sif scowled, but said nothing._ _

__“The fire in your blood did not surprise her either,” Imth spoke again, gesturing that they should walk. “She always claimed you took after your father.”_ _

__That made her scowl deepen; she’d always hated the oblique references to her mysterious sire. Bad enough that Sif was born on the wrong side of the sheets, even worse to hear she bore a likeness to a man whose name she did not even know. Not that Ulfrun or her people put much stock in such formalities; that too came from Asgard._ _

__Something in Imth’s comment made her pause mid-stride._ _

__“Wait,” Sif started, disappointment filling her chest. “You already know?”_ _

__Imth, for her part, did not smile in the infuriatingly knowing manner of most volva. Those silver eyes only glittered._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“I was going to surprise her,” Sif said, crestfallen. It’d only been four days since she’d sworn her oaths in blood as an einherjar. She’d asked Heimdall to let her tell her mother in her own time, if only to divine the reaction properly._ _

__A weary sigh left her; a foolish wish. Ulfrun saw much in the frozen water. Really, Sif should have expected it; stars forbid anything slip past her mother’s note._ _

__She twitched when Imth grasped her chin with long, bronze fingers._ _

__“Asgard has been good for you, has put iron in your eyes.”_ _

__Sif could only nod, though she did not flinch at Imth’s regard. So many years under the calculating scrutiny of Asgard’s courts had strengthened more than just her sword hand. The silver eyes of her aunt searched her, inscrutable without malice, and shifted into something far more focused._ _

__“You will need it, little flame,” Imth finished sadly, releasing her chin. “Asgard will need you, ere the end.”_ _

__Such were the words that whispered her doom._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 17/11/2017: Apparently my second wind for this fic has arrived


	5. The Work of A Witch, It Shall Melt

_threttan_

It was not a restful sleep.

First she saw stardust, glittering azure and silver as it settled on golden branches that spanned the universe. Reaching out, she saw solar systems dance around her finger-tips, and when she breathed, asteroids rattled against her teeth. Each beat of her heart pulsed light and life through her twining arms to all the little lives that clustered about her bark.

For a moment, eternity was her existence, and all the petty hurts and deaths in all the realms were lost to the endless cycle that looped around her trunk.

Then came the fathomless fire, taller than a mountain, and she felt herself burning black.

Her awareness shifted, and Sif lost her knowledge of infinity and found again herself, and it was only to stand before a cracked and broken throne. Grey ash and rubble crowded her feet, and Sif flinched at the dark rust coloured stains beneath them. Black smoke hung around the once great hall, and the only sound Sif’s tortured breath.

Where is the All-father, she wanted to shout, where are the Einherjar? 

But no words could escape the dry horror of her throat. Not even her footsteps, heavy and echoed as Sif approached the dais she’d so often knelt and sworn to.

Odin’s throne, Hildskjalf, was now a shadow, a ruined monument to the end of all things.

Where once it had been a beacon of glory and honour, gold leaf now peeled away from its graceful arms. It left the surface pox-marked and corroded like black limestone. The left side was almost missing entirely, rotting in on itself, and on what was left of the seat-

A helm.

Sif knew that helm. 

Did she?

Black, jagged horns stretched out like broken fingers. Or was it gold? But the helm too was cracked and broken, left almost discarded on an empty throne. A dark stain seeped out from underneath its edges.

An old and ancient groan sounded from Hildskjalf, startling the shield-maid even as the broken stone crumbled in on itself. 

A wounded cry, and to Sif’s surprise it was her own. She knew what this was; every child of Asgard knew the doom that pressed ever forward.

Even as she reached for the decaying stone, futility ran down her bones. Gladsheim was falling away around her, into twilight. Just the Norns had always promised. 

Asgard’s ruins fell and so did Sif. As would they all. Into dark and total oblivion, for who would live to remember?

\--

_fjortan_

Sif leant on the balcony rail and tried her best not to sneer at the frivolous extravagance thrown in her honour. Apparently, recapturing a traitorous sorceress meant dancing and feasting despite the fragility of the peace Asgard now held. It felt foolish, dishonest. 

In a cage made from seidr and steel, Lorelei sat, chained and silenced, above the feast held to spite her. Listening, silenced, while laughter and song and companionship swelled about in celebration of her shackles.

Sif should be joyous. Or at the least, satisfied.

Yet, five-hundred years was not enough to sooth the sting of Lorelei’s betrayal. 

Sif remembered the blood of her people scattered across the Great Tree's branches, remembered the wailing of abandoned wives and lovers. Remembered Fandral, on his belly and reaching to lick to the sorceress's dainty boots. Volstagg, blinking dreamily that the waves of Lorelei’s copper hair, Hogan barring her way. 

Thor on his knees, kissing her graceful hand with gentle abandon.

Haldor's sword, raised to her throat. 

Sif remembered these things. Yet the taste of her second victory felt as dry as cracked sand. The sight of her one-time friend, dangling from the ceiling like a puppet as those below hurled insults and occasionally food, brought no joy. She longed to tear down all the garish finery, all the laurels and false praise. Wanted, especially, not to see again that farcical performance of Malekith’s defeat.

Was this what made up the Realm Eternal; frivolity and false cheer? Was Asgard not still in mourning?

Maybe she ought to have simply slain Lorelei, or remained on Migard for a time.

And yet, there had been a time when Sif had revelled in feasting. Boasting of exploits with her friends. This debacle was a candle next to the flame of the lavish and elaborate affairs the Queen had hosted in times past. 

But Asgard no longer had a queen, and the All-father had no female kin to take up such duties. Poor Fulla, Frigga’s most loyal retainer, left to hold the court together when surely she’d rather grieve.

The stab of sorrow at Frigga’s memory was familiar, even as Sif’s knuckles whitened at the scene below. From her high vantage point, it was impossible to miss the glimmer of blood and gore coating the revellers. Not all bore the echoes of their future demise, but enough that it made for a ghoulish sight.

Even Lorelei, trapped in her cage like an exotic bird, was not exempt. She looked so burned.

Hissing quietly through her teeth, Sif eyed the empty chairs at the head of the hall. Odin had long since quit the charade; his palate for such events seemed to have been lost with his wife. She bowed her head, and thought he had the right of it.

“Lady Sif,” a voice that straightened her spine interrupted her reverie, “I wondered at your absence. Are you not pleased with this honour?”

Yet, when she turned to greet the speaker, it was not a single weary eye of blue that greeted her, but two of emerald green.

“You!” Something vile plummeted from her throat to stomach, and her hands grappled for knives that were not at her waist. “No.”

Loki, for that is who was before her, merely looked affronted at her lack of courtesy. A river of blood spilt out of his mouth, like a fountain, over his chin and chest.

“My Lady?”

Sif snarled, already curling into a battle-stance.

“Stay away, Silver-tongue!” she snapped. Tears clouded her eyes, for she could not bear how the shade’s eyes widened and his lips thinned. It was too real, too life-like. “Stars, I must truly be mad, to see you now.”

Something hot burned her ribs from within and made her fingers crackle with grief. The Norn’s were cruel to ask Sif to face this thing before her. Had it not been enough to weep at Frigga’s shade, standing so forlorn and grave at the foot of her bed? 

Was it not enough for Haldor to want her death again?

Asgard’s twice lost prince stood like a statue before her, and Sif could not look at him.

Teeth bared, she turned away and gripped the railing as if to crush it. Her back was open and unguarded and Sif cared not. With shaking shoulders, the shield-maid fought the urge to strike, to scream. They all faded when she reached for them.

Sif did not want Loki to fade. Not again. Even now.

“Is it not enough for me to look at my people and see death?” she rasped, dangerously close to a sob. A step sounded at her back, and a soft inhale but nothing more. Her words stumbled, a confession and a curse both at once. “Must I be haunted by those I loved as well?”

She waited for the shade to sneer, or to slay her. Neither would surprise her.

“Once we were friends,” Sif whispered, a ghost of a memory hurting more than any of his sharp words. Had she not failed him, by letting him fall into madness and despair? Surely she could have saved him.

Surely she could have saved Frigga too, and Thor his grief twice over.

When at last her bones had stopped shaking, Sif turned. 

Loki was no longer there, and she was not surprised.

\--

_fimtan_

“So, you’re the minion Asgard felt fit to send the Norn Queen?” 

The voice was light and lilting, wafting out from behind the many sheer drapes that seemingly defined Nornheim's décor. Sif turned to meet it, eyes narrow at the painted red smirk that followed.

“So it seems. I have words for your Mistress,” answered the shield-maid with a clipped tone and straight back. “Kindly direct me to her.”

The woman before her laughed like an art form. Indeed, her entire attire appeared a calculated construct; pale hair coiled through an emerald studded head-dress, matched in colour by the sumptuous silk that clung to her curves. She oozed the smooth charm of a viper, and the runes on her ornamentation betrayed her profession.

“My dear, you are far too drab to greet the likes on my Lady,” her eyes glittered as she watched for Sif’s reaction. “Hand whatever the All-father sees fit to bother Queen Karnilla with, and be on your sad, little way.”

Sif’s jaw clenched; she would not be made to feel insufficient by this enchantress. 

Never-mind that this honour was bitter-sweet and borne from grief; the All-father had chosen her for this sombre task. 

Her chin tilted up, barely able to hide the snarl that curled into her teeth. Sif’s heart was too brittle to speak civilly.

“No,” the shield-maid replied. “These words are not for you.”

Something ugly wormed its way onto the enchantress’s face, and Sif found herself satisfied.

“You-“

“Amora!” The call was sharp and soft at once, and it shut down all expression on the blond woman’s face.

“My Queen,” the enchantress, Amora, sighed, turning gracefully to curtsy as the Norn Queen emerged. “I was-“

“Taking too long, apprentice. My patience thins,” Karnilla’s teeth snapped, and Sif saw Amora flinch.

Sif bowed low, hand on heart, and did not rise tight away; the regal bearing of the statuesque woman demanded nothing less. A small wyrm encircled her shoulders, glittering sapphire and burgundy. The bone-white crown that rested on her thick, dark curls curled up like dragon-horn.

Still, the dark, cool eyes of the queen lingered on her attendant a moment longer, enough to make Amora curtsy again, deeply. Sif waited, and when that heavy gaze turned her way, she waited.

Her blood ran cold and her fingers clenched.

“Shield-maid, what words does the All-father send to me?” the Norn Queen demanded. Sif's tongue struggled to move, and something in Karnilla’s mood softened. “Or have you tidings from my lord Balder?”

“My Queen,” Sif began, heart heavy as she started to straighten. “I have no words from Balder, but of him.”

Here her voice faltered, for she had no skill with song. And who could speak the sorrow of losing one of Asgard’s best and brightest with any kind of justice? 

And all for a pretty, petty game.

Karnilla must have perceived the shadow of her thought, for her dark lips thinned. Like a storm, the Norn Queen swooped out to seize Sif by her breast-plate and shook her so fiercely her teeth rattled.

“What has happened?” cried the Norn Queen with a voice like the ocean. “Tell me!”

“Balder is dead!” The words tore of Sif's throat raw, for he had been her mentor and shield-brother, and now he was nothing but star dust.

“How?” Karnilla snarled, teeth long and sharp and the shield-maid dropped her head.

“A proving match,” she gasped, “an arrow of mistletoe. None could stop the bleeding.”

The Norn Queen thrust her away, hands stretched wide as if burnt. Her face lifted up, struck still with grief and gravitas. It was a private thing, Sif realised, that she was now witness to; a dreadful realisation that tore at the very bones of the self. What she would later recognise as failure.

“My love,” the Queen whispered, and Sif understood. “My beloved.”

A cold stillness crept into the room, and Sif could not find herself between the grief she recognised, and the duty she was there to perform. She shrugged the burden off her shoulders. Green-clad Amora took one hesitant step toward her Queen, but the lady took no note.

Wordlessly, Sif held up the bundle that held good Balder’s sword. It was a kindness, a concession from the All-father, granted only for Karnilla’s great strength. Sif offered the sword, though, in a gesture of commiseration.

There were many songs of this particular story. None had ever thought it would end so.

The Norn Queen’s hands did not waver as they accepted the shield-maid’s gift.

“Even I,” her whispered words were husky with exhaustion and sorrow, “with all my strength, and I could not spin his thread anew. My beloved Balder.”

Sif said nothing, only bowed again. 

Here she learned that love earned no reprieve from the ageless fates. A doom could not be denied, only waylaid for a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up! Huzzah! I'm kind of just rolling with this fic, and so random characters pop up out of nowhere. Hopefully I've been able to keep some sense of coherency to the story, and I do kinda know where it's headed. Hope you all enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Edited 13/11/17: to make it better


	6. May Your Life Never Be Injured

_sextan_

She awoke to sly whispers oozing accusations into her fuzzy thoughts. Words like ‘cowardice’, ‘madness’ and ‘failure’, all pitched to sound like promises.

For the first moment, Sif snarled and reached for her sword, only to falter at her empty belt. An oily chuckle wrapped around her anger, and turned it brittle. All her bones felt bruised and broken; one knock and she might shatter.

 _Who are you to try and change your doom?_ It told her, and Sif curled her weak and stiff arms in to hold herself. 

Countless were the times she had watched the fires of the dead burn and fall into the abyss of space. Sif had sung the grieving songs to shield-brothers, friends, princes and queens. All the while, her wolf eyes stone dry with fierce control and denial.

 _So boldly did the Lady Sif declare that she owned her fate, yet what has your sword and shield defended that did not later fall?_ The shield-maid turned her cheek into the rough stone floor, but was no comfort to be found in the cave’s darkness. 

_How quickly you abandon others to death. When good Haldor sought your life-blood, not a thought did you spare for his redemption._ She shook her head and crammed trembling fingers into her ears. 

And yet, surely the heaviness of those words were weighed by truth? Bile rose on her tongue.

“No,” Sif gasped, lost for air and hurting. “No, it wasn’t-“

 _Stop lying,_ the voice laughed. _It took not even a moment for you to abandon your prince, powerless and alone, against the fire of the Destroyer. The mighty shield-maid ran, and left Odin’s heir to die!_

She crawled to her sun-scorched knees, fingers scrabbling at the unyielding dirt. A dark place she had found to spend her rest, and one that sought her whimpering end. At least the desert would have let her die with her pride intact. Here, regret anchored Sif’s limbs, and her back was bowed in abjection. 

Was this what had warped Loki into a monster? Not jealousy or madness, but the unrelenting sharpness of one’s own flaws?

 _Those you love turn from you for you coldness, and those who reach for you bloody heart with grasping fingers, you turn away._ Her brain rattled at that terrible voice. It had perceived her, and now those revelations bounced around without care of damage. 

Tears trickled out from her bone-dry eyes, skin raw where Sif had struggled.

Struggled no more, for what was the point? None would mark her lonely end here. When last had she seen her family, or spoken kind words to her friends? Good Heimdall would not seek her. Thor would not grieve her. Sif had made her heart a pillar of steel by which to stay strong, but all it had done was see her solitary.

 _Your duty cannot warm your heart like the blood on your hands does._ For, oh, did she remember the heat of battle. The fire it lit in her blood to see her enemies routed. _Lady Sif drinks in joy at death, for it is not life or Asgard she protects, but her pride!_

Shards of pain dove into her chest, and Sif let her limbs fall loose. Let the tears to fall where they would lay. Almost gave herself over to the gloomy peace promised in the dark.

And yet-

_“And who proved wrong all who scoffed at the idea that a young maiden could be one of the fiercest warriors?”_

And yet.

Her heart beat, and it was a strong sound that broke through the taunting symphony of her failure.

Pride had filled her heart many a time, yes. Sif had found joy in the strength of her arms and deadliness of her blade. She had blushed in pleased vanity at Thor’s friendship and Frigga’s regard. In the golden halls of Gladsheim, her chest swelled to burst when the All-father blessed her with accolades and honours. She had looked at Asgard and known that no finer realm the universe had ever known.

With gritted teeth, Sif raised her head to glare at the darkness. 

“No,” she murmured, and it was a soft, raw sound.

Stripped of all her meat and bone and bitterness and what remained there of Sif but her duty? And she had never used it to shield her pride.

Sif had fought lindorms, bested sorceresses, and defended the small and fearful. She was Asgard’s shield and her sword-arm against any darkness that stood to conquer it. Her enemies had fallen because her will was greater, her star-spark brighter.

 _Yes._ The voice snapped at her. _Lady Sif is made for War, and nothing else can touch her._

Was she not named shield-maid and defender of the realm?

Was she not Ulfrun’s daughter and Heimdall’s sister? Trusted warrior of Odin and loyal friend to Thor? Was she not named for kith and kindred?

These were the things she held pride in, and gladly. These she would not regret. Never mind the twisted pain of her joints, the cracks in her skin. They did not matter. Sif had loved and lost, and still she could stand tall. 

Sif stood, and laughed.

It rang loudly against dark, cavern walls, and the whole room shook.

“I am Sif,” she threw out as a challenge to despair. Spine straight and shoulders back, her eyes glinted in the dark. “Warrior of Asgard, and I defy you, shadow!”

 _You cannot._ It curled doubt at her ankles and elbows, but Sif shook her weary limbs and beared her fists. The veil fluttered around her form like a lover.

“I can.” Sif glared into the dark. “Ever have I fought with honour and justice, and ever shall I defend my brethren. Your lies cannot stop me.”

The ground shuddered again, making her start. The stalactites were slick with drool. At her feet, the cave turned hot and hungry. Somehow, Sif’s sight pieced together the puzzle that shifted in the gloom. What she perceived caused a shout to leap from the shield-maid’s throat, even as she turned and ran.

Sif stumbled out to the light, sun-glare causing her to flinch. Behind her, the desert rolled and burst, as glittering, dark scales emerged from beneath the sand.

Though her muscles ached, Sif turned to face the dread-wyrm’s gaping maw. A long tongue languidly licked at the air, oily chuckle bouncing off the hot air that it exhaled. Sif raised a hand against the heat of it’s breath.

 _Where is your armour, shield-maid?_ It’s broad head swept from side to side, nostrils flaring to taste the air. Scales shimmered over rippled muscle. _Where is your sword? I see no comrades, no duty. Only a girl-child, playing at bravery!_

Already the hum of battle began in her blood, and Sif’s long-toothed smile was sharp. 

Oh, she may be mad and her fists might be bare, but she was a warrior and this was a fight worthy of her final song. 

\--

_sjautan_

“Lady Sif,” Heimdall spoke at the sound of her step, though his eyes did not turn away from the stars. “You have come.”

Anger and fear squeezed about Sif’s throat, and all her resolve faltered at the even tone of the Watcher.

 _Brother,_ she wanted to say, _brother do you see me?_

But her teeth were stuck together and her jaw ached with blood from her well-bitten tongue. Not even her handmaid could hide the purple bruising under her eyes, or the scratches she had wrought down her cheeks and through her hair.

Even now, Sif could see the breaks in Heimdall’s arms, the fall of his guts against his opened belly. Beneath his feet, blood pooled against the cracked and broken tiles of the

Observatory, and beyond that, and endless battlefield.

“Little sister,” a deep voice growled, and Sif’s gaze was pulled away from the burning void behind the wasteland. “Sif!”

She blinked, and the gold of her brother’s eyes rose like twin suns, his hands large and warm on her bent shoulders.

“Heimdall,” the shield-maid gasped, belly hollow of pride and full of fear. 

All she could see was understanding in his bright eyes, and a pain lanced through Sif’s chest.

He knew. He knew.

Fingers shaking, her knees buckled and left Sif grasping at Heimdall’s wrists. Horror ran thick under her fear as she comprehended fully how heavy her brother’s burden. All the despair, the atrocities within the long arms of the universe, and alone Heimdall stood in his eternal vigil. 

And here she stood, ruined by glimpses of doom.

Tears ran down her red cheeks as their regard continued. Sorrow broke through his all-seeing scrutiny and her brother held her like he had not done since she was a small child.

“I cannot see anything but the end,” Sif hissed into his breastplate.

“Little sister,” Heimdall repeated softly, stoking her hair until she no longer smelt his blood mingling with Yggdrasil’s ash. “You have fought this alone for too long.”

“This has broken me,” she told him, tongue heavy and dry. “To think, I thought I knew death.”

“Death is a part of fate.” He felt so warm, even through his armour, voice deep and smooth like a river stone. “And now, you can pierce it’s veil.”

Her bones shuddered at that. Why now? What had stretched so thin in the realms that would now let Sif see death peeking out at every corner? How easy it had been to laugh at death and roar for glory! Sif had known joy at battle and war. Had sought to become it. Now, it was all she could do to not shrink away from the doom she glimpsed. 

Gasping for air, the shield-maid fought the weight of her panic. Sif knew her strength, had earned it, and now found it as useless as a child’s toy sword. So many lay dead, and Asgard was crumbling slowly at its foundations.

“Death’s veil?” The words were breathy, the sentiment raw. “To think I once envied you your sight!”

One day, her visions would become truth. Would Sif watch helpless then too? She had never feared death, had always claim of herself a warrior’s courage.

Heimdall pulled back to watch her face. Sif wondered, belatedly, if this was some buried gift of their mother’s people. Some sleeping skill that had long lain hidden, now awake and thrashing like an angry wyrm. 

“Hela’s prison weakens as the All-father wanes,” the Watcher murmured, though the words did not form sense to her ears. Sif opened her mouth to question, but her brother sighed and shook his head.

“What little I can do to ease your burden, I will,” promised Heimdall, taking her shoulders to lead Sif to the Observatory’s side-chambers that housed his quarters. It was a grim mark of Sif’s constitution that she followed so meekly.

Guiding her to sit on a chaise, Heimdall placed a hand over her furrowed brow and spoke a secret word. Heat seeped into her skin and skull, tricking through her mind and down her skull. A blessed relief, and for the first moment in months the shield-maid did not feel at war with her own mind. Blinking dozily, Sif looked up to the worried, golden gaze of her brother.

“Sleep sister,” he told Sif, pressing her back so that she lay against the chaise’s cushions. “I will seek a balm for your blight.” 

Her eyes felt so heavy beneath whatever charm he’d set to sooth her. Already, Sif’s mind fell still and silent, so swift she almost missed Heimdall’s last, parting words. 

“Asgard will need you ere the end.”

\--

_etjan_

She spat blood into the dirt, grunting just a little before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Beside her, Fandral crinkled his nose at the unseemly display; already his hair looked returned to near perfection. Sif grinned at her friend with red teeth, and the blonde sighed and turned away.

It was a tight smile, though; the field lay thick with the bodies of Asgard’s enemies, or such that treacherous Lorelei’s sorcery had made them. In their midst lay gold armour, for the sorceress had not fled the Golden Realm empty-handed after her botched coup.

“Ah!” Volstagg’s voice boomed from behind them, “My friends, are we all intact?”

“More or less,” the shield-maid answered, straitening as she flicked her sword clean.

Not empty-handed indeed, for Lorelei had stolen the first prince in her honeyed net. That she had not seen fit to set Thor upon at this first incursion was both a blessing and a curse.

“More than these poor fools, at the least,” sighed Fandral, tossing the edge of his cloak over one shoulder. A careless gesture, for all that his grip tightened on the hilt of Fimbuldraugr, now quiet at his side.

“The sorceress’s power is greater than we feared,” mused Hogun grimly, approaching on Volstagg’s heels. Sif nodded in wordless agreement, not thinking on the other face to yet meet them.

Okolnir’s orange sun beat heavy upon their backs. Glinted off the black and copper workings of Lorelei’s commandeered fortress. It seared at her skin, but was little match to the fire that already burned in her blood.

Rage. Treachery. Fear. All things that the sorceress would account for.

“Worry not, friends,” Volstagg shock off the concern like a waterbird. “I am sure these pretty charms of Loki’s will keep us safe as promised.”

“Such a pity our good seidr-mage could not be with us to test his workings,” answered Fandral, eyes sharp as he scanned fortress. “Ah.”

The tone of his last word was odd, devoid enough of joviality to mark danger. 

All four companions turned, muscles flexing and weapons at the ready as they faced the gold-clad figure now striding down copper stairs to meet them. A nail tore at the skin of Sif’s heart to see him so.

“Turn back now,” declared Haldor, finest of the Einherjar, beloved of Sif, “and my Lady might yet gentle her wrath.”

“Good Haldor,” Volstagg spoke, eyes flicking to her when Sif did not. “We entreat you as friends, lay down your arms. You have not betrayed Asgard yet.”

The Einherjar’s stern, sable face did not falter, no trace of the small smile defying discipline that had first caught her eye. His sword glimmered under the orange sun.

“Lady,” Hogun said, stepping forward from her right. “Time runs short. This, we leave to you.”

“As you please,” Sif answered, knuckles pale behind her shield. “I will join you soon.”

The Warriors Three departed, Fandral bowing gallantly as he passed. Haldor looked not their way, and soon her friends were gone deeper into Lorelei’s lair. Under an unfeeling sky, Sif stared down her lover and ignored the bile chasing her throat. 

“Will you not turn away, Lady Sif?” Haldor spoke softly, almost kind. It made Sif snarl. 

She answered with her blade.

The clash of their met weapons echoed over the ensorcelled dead. Sif cut and parried, ducking under the long arc of Haldor’s sword to stab at his side. He spun away, untouched, curling his blade around again.

Flexing her arms, Sif broke the slice with her shield, teeth bared as she struck again and again.

Her thigh was cut. His cheek. Blood ran in rivulets over arms and armour, and yet, her blood burned angry and alive. 

And still, Haldor fought on. A strike to her face, a gut punch. His heart, it seemed, had no more room for her. No matter how Sif entreated him, begged, the ensorcelled Einherjar would not surrender. 

And so, Haldor was caught by Sif’s blade. A sly strike unchecked; she was the better warrior, after all. Her heart was never a gentle thing, and war was not to be played at.

Haldor sunk to the ground, and she beside him. Her arms held him close, even as Lorelei’s charm held his mind.

“You’ve killed me,” he said with muted surprise, eyes pale and frantic. “It was meant to be you, she asked it of me.”

“Shh,” Sif soothed, eyes wet and heavy as blood spilt from Haldor’s mouth. It was the only thing her knotted throat allowed.

His deep eyes blinked slowly, flickering and falling. As if he but dozed on her lap on a lazy afternoon. Sif hoped, prayed to the ever-bright stars, that some part of Haldor had shaken free, even as that last life left him.

Sif did not weep over her bitter victory; the true battle was not yet won. Behind her, in the bowels of Lorelei’s stolen fortress on desolate Okolnir, thunder boomed and shook the walls. 

Shaking out limb and joint, the shield-maid stood and ignored the tremor beneath her cracked rib-cage. She closed the eyes of fallen Haldor, whispered one last blessing to his mouth. Picked up her sword and shield.

The Warriors Three were brave and bold, but even Loki’s charms might not hold under the sorceress’s workings. And, there was an ensorcelled and devoted Thor to contend with.

So, Lady Sif marched into the dragon’s maw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a ridiculous hiatus, this fic is back in business! Blame the new Thor film; strangely it worked in so well with my initial concept behind writing this. I've gone and edited the rest, just to make it canon compliant.
> 
> Anyway, I'm stoked if anyone actually continues to read this. Hopefully it won't be too long til the next update, and I actually have figured out the end now.


End file.
